


PASSING THE NIGHT

by EchoThruTheWoods



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-22 07:56:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6071266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EchoThruTheWoods/pseuds/EchoThruTheWoods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Veld and the Turks give Vincent something he earned thirty years ago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	PASSING THE NIGHT

Veld bowed over the old man’s body, and placed an unopened pack of cigarettes beside him. They were Garen’s favorite, hand-rolled of an obscure variety of tobacco that burned with a light, sweet scent. They weren’t cheap, but then, nothing about Garen had ever been cheap.

The chanting of the priest wafted through the room on a soft cloud of incense. Veld stepped aside to let the next mourner approach, watching as his tall, lean companion bowed in his turn and slipped a couple of silver gil coins into the casket. Only Veld was close enough to see the slender, black-gloved hand shake as it withdrew.

Vincent stepped back. Veld caught his eye, and with a discreet jerk of his chin, drew him back to their seats at the rear of the room.

The little chapel was full of Turks. Even the chairs closest to the coffin, usually reserved for family, held Turks. Garen had died at ninety-seven in a nursing home, his siblings long dead, his descendants likewise. The Turks were his only remaining family, even if most of those in the room were too young to have known or worked with him, and they took their familial duties seriously.

Vincent’s face, always pallid, had a distinct grey cast to it. Veld sat next to him, leaning close to murmur, “You feeling all right?”

Vincent took a deep breath. “Fine.”

Veld let him be. Vincent never got the shakes over dead bodies. He’d seen too many not to be used to it. Hell, he’d BEEN one; still was, if you wanted to get technical.

He hadn’t personally known Garen, who’d retired shortly after Vincent’s acceptance into the Turks. Whatever had spooked him, he’d tell Veld about it later, if he wanted to.

One by one the mourners paid their respects, each leaving a small gift for the soul of the deceased: Flowers, more cigarettes, brightly-wrapped candies, more coins. On a table to one side of the casket, small charcoal cakes smoldered in a bowl. The oldest of the Turks, contemporaries of Garen, offered incense here; long, curling wisps of fragrant smoke rose continually from the bowl.

The priest’s low voice intoned the last words of the sutra; he bowed, very low, once to the deceased and once to the gathered Turks.

From the middle of the front row of seats, a man rose to his feet. Slender, fair-haired, strangely formal in black instead of his signature white, Rufus Shinra turned to face the gathering.

“Thank you all for coming to Garen’s wake. Who will be staying for the vigil?”

Hands rose, the motion passing in a wave from the first row all the way to the back, Veld’s and Vincent’s among them.

One corner of Rufus’s mouth turned up. “Very well. You’ll find refreshments in the next room. Do please join me there, and let the vigil commence.”

# # #

A wake, an all-night vigil and a funeral made for a long, weary twenty-four hours. Veld sank into his favorite chair, pulling off his tie, head thrown back against the cushions. He let his mind drift, let images float past his inner eye like falling leaves: Ice-white lilies and chrysanthemums, crow-black suits and red-gold charcoal embers, soft grey smoke against a hard blue autumn sky. He dozed a bit, coming out of it when the scent of spearmint wafted past his nose.

Veld opened his eyes and accepted a mug of steaming tea from Vincent. “Thank you.”

Vincent nodded in that absent way that meant his mind was elsewhere, and went out of the room. Veld sat, sipping tea, listening to the small creaks and clatters coming from the rear of the house, until finally Vincent returned. The black suit and tie, and the white shirt so unsuited to Vincent’s pale skin, were gone, but black still covered him from his high-necked shirt to his close-fitting pants and black boots. Sleek as a whip, and just as lithe; but Veld took note of the pinched brows and the tight line of his mouth.

“Did you forget Reeve gave us the day off?”

“Going to the firing range.” Shoulder and hip holsters in place, Vincent pulled on his gloves and a loose jacket. “I’ll be home late.”

The door shut. Veld finished his tea. “Right, then. Lunch for one it is.”

# # #

Cold woke him. Veld glanced at the bedside clock: 3:23 AM. He rolled over, touched the other side of the bed. Faint warmth met his hand. It meant that Vincent hadn’t slept, even though he’d come to bed before midnight; he’d never reached stasis, the death-like state that leached all the heat from his body. The blanket had fallen away from Veld, letting in the cool air.

Grumbling, he rose and went hunting. He didn’t go far.

Vincent stood in the second bedroom, a shadow against the dark window, his back to the bedroom doorway. Veld stopped there, giving him space.

“Looking for the ghost?”

“I am the ghost,” said Vincent in a rough whisper. “Aged three decades in a pine box.”

“Ah, spook.” Veld came in, put his arms in a loose circle around Vincent.

“That’s me. A spook, a spirit. Dead and gone.”

“Vince…”

“I never had a wake,” Vincent said. “Never had a vigil. No funeral, no flowers. No tears. No one telling stories, sharing memories. I just disappeared.”

“There were tears,” Veld said. “Trust me on that.”

“And the town burned, and everyone left, and I…stayed. Alone in the dark.” Vincent shuddered, his head bowed. “Forgotten.”

“No.” Veld drew his arms tight around the slim, shivering body. “Never forgotten. We searched. I swear to you, Vincent, we searched the town, the grounds, the house itself. The door was hidden so well, we never….ah, shit, who am I kidding? We tried, but not hard enough. We failed. And when we did find you, years later, we left you there. I’m sorry. It’s my fault you were there in the first place.”

Vincent turned in Veld’s arms. His eyes caught the faint light from the hall, the pupils wide and black. “It’s not your fault.”

“Yeah, it is,” Veld said. “I was in charge. They wanted someone for guard duty and I sent you. I thought it would be an easy assignment. Gods help me, Vince, if I could go back, I’d give my other arm to make a different choice. I’d take your place in that fucking coffin in a heartbeat.”

“Veld, no…”

“Yes. Listen.” He touched Vincent’s face, the fine skin, untouched by time, cold under his fingers. “I never forgot. Don’t ever think it. I don’t suppose it helps to hear it now, after so many years, but I swear on Felicia’s grave…I never forgot. Not once.”

Vincent rested his chin on Veld’s head, silent. Veld held him as close as he would allow. Veld’s family was a memory, his dearest friend and sometime-lover a wraith, only half-alive, yet with eternity stretching before him.

There were tears, still, but he wouldn’t let Vincent see them.

# # #

Everyone had secrets. Veld was no different. No one was better at keeping things hidden than a Turk, especially an old one.

Ah, fuck that, he wasn’t old yet. Not where it counted, anyway, and he wasn’t listening to his knees, thank you very much. He needed to get this done before Valentine figured out that Veld’s lunchtime errand had anything to do with him.

Head and shoulders crammed as far into the lower kitchen cupboards as he could get them, he pushed aside his heaviest cast iron pot, found what he wanted, and pulled it out into the daylight. Might as well just sit here on the floor for a minute.

The box was slim, made of double-walled solid steel. Veld pulled a slender chain out from under his shirt. Inside the small square locket, behind the picture of his long-dead wife, was a tiny steel key. He used it to unlock the box and remove the single, yellowed manila folder, rifling through the contents.

So very little; all of that vibrant life and promise reduced to a few printed pages. Cold, impersonal facts in an old-fashioned font, just another report typed by some office drone, filed away and forgotten. He could recite every word from memory. All of it added up to the two words stamped in faded ink on the cover: _Presumed Dead_.

On the bottom of the box was the piece he’d come for, a heavier grade of paper, eight inches by ten inches. Veld flipped it to the glossy side. There was more color in the face than there was in the actual subject, now. Less cynicism. More innocence.

And the eyes looking out at him could still pierce his soul.

One advantage to having his own office was privacy, which even Vincent respected. Veld spent the better part of two days making phone calls, and another day out handling other arrangements in person. It would have taken a few more days, but after speaking to Rufus Shinra, the man gently called him an idiot and proceeded to send Turks hither and yon.

“And we’re done,” Rufus told him personally, a few hours later. “Everyone and everything is ready. Just choose the most auspicious day, and give the word.”

Veld bowed, his throat tight. “Thank you. You don’t know how important this is.”

“Ah, but I do. I’ll be there. All of us will be there.”

# # #

Veld gave no one a key to the house, but he didn’t have to. They were Turks. They could be discreet as well as effective, in the right circumstances. They’d even locked the front door again, Veld was pleased to note.

As Veld turned the latch, Vincent stopped him, head up, eyes narrowed. Trust him to catch something, some unexpected sound or unfamiliar scent, with his enhanced senses. “Veld, there’s someone inside.”

“It’s okay, Vince. They were invited.”

Stepping inside with Veld, Vincent froze, staring.

A table filled with chrysanthemums faced him from across the room. Incense burned in a long ceramic box, filling the air with a peppery scent. In the middle of the table, flanked by two tall candles, a framed photograph stared back at him out of the past.

Vincent’s breath caught. “My gods.”

Beside the altar, a priest in full kimono bowed a greeting; not the same priest who’d conducted Garen’s wake. This was an older man, well aware of who, and what, Vincent was, his lined face and dark eyes alight with compassion.

Ranged around the room, filling every corner, were Turks. Elena and Cissnei smiled. Reno, for once in  complete, formal uniform, winked at him. There was Rude, dark and decorous as always, beside him, backed by Rod, Katana, and every other Turk currently employed. Closest to the altar sat a cluster of men and women with grey or salt-and-pepper hair and solemn faces. Veld watched recognition flare in Vincent’s eyes, gaze passing from face to face, lips silently shaping names.

Veld nodded to the young blond man on his left, acknowledgement and gratitude.

Rufus stepped forward, arms outstretched.

“Vincent Valentine, welcome to your wake.”

Vincent blinked. “Shouldn’t I be lying down?”

“It is customary,” said the priest, his voice tinged with gentle humor, “but in this case, not required.”

There was no coffin. Veld would not have one. For damn sure Vincent wouldn’t decry the lack. It was the only thing missing. On the table behind the photograph of a painfully-young Vincent lay the traditional gifts: A white kimono, neatly folded; a pair of sandals; six coins for the River Crossing; a pile of Vincent’s favorite sweets; and, carefully stacked, a dozen very high-caliber bullets.

Vincent reached out, touching each item in turn, the shock in his eyes turning slowly to wonder. By the time his fingers came to the photograph, he trembled, visibly.

Rufus took his arm, guiding him to a chair. “Here. A seat for the guest of honor.”

Vincent turned to look at Veld.

“How did you do all of this?” He glanced toward the kitchen. “And there’s food for the vigil, isn’t there? Did you--?”

“Damn straight,” said Veld. “Reeve let me use the WRO cafeteria. Hell if I’d let anyone else cook for your wake. For the rest, I had help.”

He gestured to Rufus, and to Tseng at Rufus’s side. “They--we--are your family, and this is long overdue: A wake and a vigil for a young Turk who died on assignment thirty-some years ago.”

“A man whose life was deserving of honor,” said Tseng, “whose death should have been investigated, and the mystery solved.”

“My family takes the blame for that,” said Rufus. “I can only offer my deepest apologies, poor as they are.”

“You weren’t even born yet,” Vincent said, quietly.

“Even so.”

Vincent blinked again, his head bowed, lips pressed tight. Veld put a steadying hand on Vincent’s shoulder. It might not be proper protocol for a wake, but that was too bad.

“Shall we begin?” said the priest, and hearing no objections, seated himself on a cushion before the altar, and in a deep, resonant voice began to chant. A few lines in, the Turks joined him.

“…form does not differ from emptiness, emptiness does not differ from form, that which is form is emptiness, that which is emptiness form…”

Vincent drew a long, shaky breath. He lifted his head, eyes closed, and his low, smoky voice began to weave itself into the chant.

 “…The same is true of feelings, perceptions, impulses, consciousness…”

Vincent’s hand came up, laid itself over Veld’s. Veld’s lips shaped a smile around the words of the sutra.

# # #

The urn made an unusual centerpiece on the mantel. Full and round, in the shape called stamnos, its gunmetal grey raku finish was painted with figures of white camellias, the whole as dark and graceful as Vincent himself.

The ashes inside were little enough, and there were no bones. There was room, yet.

Veld lit a stick of incense, waved it until the flame went out, and set it in the holder beside the urn. A fresh supply of incense lay nearby, ready to be burned one by one until the traditional mourning period was over.

He stepped back, and looked at Vincent. “If anyone had told me all those years ago that I’d be mourning a man who came back from the dead, I’d have had them committed.”

“The man who came back is not the same as the one who died.”

“Nothing strange about that. We all die a little every day. I’m not the same man I was thirty years ago, either.”

Vincent slipped an arm around Veld. “Thank you for this. I would never have asked for it. Hell, I didn’t even realize I needed it until Garen’s wake.”

“It’s little enough after everything I didn’t do when it might have meant something.”

“It means something now. A great deal. And you have to stop blaming yourself for what happened to me.”

Veld leaned against him, breathing in the scent of incense that clung to Vincent’s hair. “I will if you will. How about, just for tonight, we leave all of that aside?”

“I’ll try.” Vincent glanced at the urn. “I’m sorry we had to burn the photo that you kept all these years.”

“Don’t be. I had copies made.”

Vincent smiled. “Sneak.”

“I’m just glad that you remembered to remove the bullets before the whole thing went into the oven.”

In comfortable silence, they watched the incense smoke thread its way to the ceiling. The urn gleamed in the light of the candles, steadily burning beside it.

“I’m not well-versed in the language of flowers,” Vincent said. “What do white camellias mean?”

Veld looked up at him. “Waiting.”

Vincent’s arms drew Veld close. Softly, he chanted the last line of the sutra that had put his old life to rest.

“Gone, gone, gone beyond, gone altogether beyond, awaken…all hail.”

**Author's Note:**

> The wake portrayed in the story is based loosely on Japanese Buddhist funeral rites but is not meant to depict an authentic Japanese funeral. Any errors are entirely my own. No offense or criticism toward Japanese or Buddhist customs is intended. The text of the chant is an English translation of the “Heart Sutra.” 
> 
> There is no character in canon named Garen. I just figured there had to be some Turks who came before the familiar folks we know and love.
> 
> Oh, and the ghost Veld mentions is the one in the previous story, "Ghost Walk", in case you haven't read it.
> 
> Edited in August 2016 - changed a couple of words because I'm a detail freak, and also corrected a misspelled word ;P


End file.
